Chapter 38 #2
Except now there’s a new weight. A secret Vegas wedding that no one knows about.
I pushed the thought away. We could worry about that later. After. When we were already married, and it was too late for anyone to talk us out of it.
We stood there in silence, wrapped around each other.
“Tell me something,” I whispered.
“Anything.”
“Tell me this is real. That all the chaos out there doesn’t touch what’s in here.” I pressed a hand over his heart.
He didn’t answer with words.
His mouth found mine. A silent, desperate answer to every unspoken fear. His lips were firm and demanding, and I opened for him instantly, a moan trapped in my throat as his tongue swept in. The taste of him flooded my senses.
His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, holding me in place as he kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
The blanket slipped from my shoulders, dropping to the concrete.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along my jaw, down the column of my throat. His teeth grazed my pulse point, sending electricity straight to my core.
“Owen,” I gasped, fingers tangling in his hoodie.
In one fluid motion, he bent and lifted me, my arms instinctively looping around his neck as he carried me through the sliding glass door into the warmth of the apartment.
His mouth found mine again.
The world blurred, and my heart hammered a frantic counter-rhythm to his steady, sure steps.
He didn’t take me to the bedroom.
He carried me to the dining room, setting me on the edge of the solid oak table. His hands slid down my arms to grasp my wrists.
“Off,” he said. “Now.”
It wasn’t a request, and the authority in it sent fresh heat pooling low in my belly. My fingers fumbled with the hem of my sweater, but he was faster. He grabbed the fabric and pulled it over my head. My bra followed seconds later.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathed.
His own clothes hit the floor. Then his hands were at my waistband, peeling away the rest. I lifted my hips to help. He knelt, pulling my panties over my feet, discarding everything. I was completely bare on the table.
He dropped to his knees between my thighs, his hands running up my calves, over my knees, settling on the inside of my thighs. His touch was firm. Possessive as he spread me wider for him.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “All for me.”
He leaned forward, and the heat of his breath hit me first, a teasing promise against my aching flesh. My hips jerked involuntarily, seeking contact.
He denied me. Nuzzled, nose brushing through soft skin, inhaling deeply. “You smell like you’re mine,” he growled. Then his tongue touched me.
Not a tentative flick, but a long, slow stroke from my entrance to my clit. My back arched off the table, a broken cry tearing from my throat. The sensation was blinding. He did it again, lapping at me like I was the only thing he’d ever needed to taste.
“Owen…”
He hummed against me, the vibration shooting sparks through me. His tongue circled my clit, firm and insistent, then dipped lower to delve inside me before returning to that aching, swollen nub.
One hand remained splayed on my inner thigh, holding me open. The other came up, fingers sliding through my wetness before two pushed inside. I cried out, hips bucking against his hand and mouth. The penetration of his fingers, curling just right, and the relentless friction of his tongue.
“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against my flesh, his words muffled and hot. “So sweet. I could do this for hours.”
He punctuated the statement by sucking my clit into his mouth, applying pressure that had my toes curling, my fingers scrambling to grip the tabletop. His fingers pumped in and out, matching the pace of his mouth.
The coil inside me tightened, a spring wound to its absolute limit. Pleasure radiated from my core, a burning, tingling wave that consumed every thought. There was only this: the sound of his hungry mouth on me, the feel of his fingers filling me, the sight of his head between my thighs.
“I’m gonna…” I whimpered.
He increased the pressure, tongue flicking faster, fingers curling harder, finding that spot deep inside. The orgasm didn’t crest… it exploded. It ripped through me, a seismic release that locked my muscles and stole my breath.
A raw scream tore from my throat as my body convulsed under the relentless torture of his mouth. He didn’t let up, drinking down every pulse and shudder, drawing out the pleasure until it bordered on pain, until I was sobbing his name, boneless and trembling.
Slowly, gently, he withdrew and lifted his head, his mouth glistening. He rose to his feet, his cock straining visibly.
Before I could catch my breath, his hands were on my hips. He turned me, rolling me to my stomach, positioning my feet on the floor, and my upper body braced on my forearms.
The hot, heavy weight of him rested against the curve of my ass. He leaned over me, chest pressed to my back, mouth at my ear.
“That was just the beginning, baby,” he whispered. One hand smoothed down my spine, possessive. The other guided the head of his cock through my pussy, not entering. Just coating himself in my arousal, making me shudder.
“You’re so wet for me,” he growled. “Still dripping from my mouth. Tell me what you want.”
“Yes,” I gasped, pushing back against him. “Please, Owen. I need you.”
“How?”
“Inside me. Now.”
He rewarded my begging with a low, approving groan. He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing against my entrance.
And then he jerked his hip forward, burying himself to the hilt in one long, brutal stroke.
The fullness was breathtaking. I cried out, my inner muscles clenching around the sudden, delicious invasion. He was thick and hard. He stayed there, buried deep, letting me adjust, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “You’re so tight.”
He began to move. Long, powerful strokes that pulled almost all the way out before driving back in with a force that rocked my entire body forward. The slap of skin against skin was loud in the quiet room. Each thrust hit a deeper, pleasure building on the heels of my last climax.
His hands gripped my hips hard, fingers sure to leave bruises. He set a punishing, perfect pace.
“You take me so well,” he grunted. “My good girl.”
His words were a catalyst, pouring gasoline on the fire inside me.
He leaned further over me, chest plastered to my back, mouth at my ear. His thrusts became shorter, harder, and more focused. “You feel that? That’s how much I want you. Every inch.”
I was moaning with every drive, meaningless syllables of pleasure. The table creaked beneath us.
“I’m close,” I panted. “Again. So close.”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his hand slipping around my hip, fingers finding my already sensitive clit. He rubbed tight, quick circles exactly where I needed. “Let me feel you.”
It was too much. The overstimulation, the deep penetration, the rough, possessive words. The second orgasm crashed over me, more intense than the first. My vision whited out. My cries were swallowed by the wood of the table as I clenched around him, body seizing in violent, uncontrollable spasms.
My climax triggered his. With a roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he pistoned into me twice more before slamming home and holding deep.
I felt the hot pulse of his release inside me, and the sensation prolonged my own shudders.
He collapsed over me, his weight a welcome anchor as we both gasped for air, slick with sweat, trembling in the aftermath.
He was still buried inside me, still throbbing, when he nuzzled my neck. His voice came out hoarse and sated against my skin. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”